Lorraine Connection (15 page)

‘The case is closed, apparently.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘What about my security guards?’

‘Fine in every respect. During the investigation they changed direction as obediently as on the parade ground.’

A few steps in silence. Quignard greets the chairman of the regional council with a smile. They go a long way back: having both been in the OAS in Algeria when young, with a shared past they have tacitly agreed to keep quiet about, they had created a staunch closeness and complicity neither had ever betrayed. The chairman is in hide number one. Not a good position. So much the better. A mediocre shot. Tomaso resumes.

‘Do you really believe Park’s gone back to Korea?’

Surprised. ‘Yes. I asked for him and all the Korean managers to be recalled to the parent company. I felt they’d done enough harm as it was. Why?’

‘Park is a man who’s never suffered from scruples, if I’m not mistaken. He knows there’s a lot of money to be made, and fast. He has inside information, and he’s getting out?’

‘And where do you think he might be?’

‘Think, Maurice. Put yourself in his position. Where would you go to make your next move?’ Quignard walks on in silence for a few moments. Not for long.

‘Warsaw.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’

‘Now you’ve got me worried.’ A silence, an exchange of
pleasantries
as they walk past a magistrate newly appointed to the Briey courts.

‘Do you have any way of finding out if he’s over there?’

‘Perhaps. I have a car dealership network in Poland. Give me some photos, a description, I’ll see what I can do.’

Then Tomaso stops at hide number three, an excellent
position
for an excellent marksman, and Quignard continues. He has number fifteen, at the very end of the line, a shitty number. Nothing ever happens that far out. Sigh.

At number six, a Luxembourg banker is sitting on a folding hunting stool, his eyes half shut.
Don’t
be
taken
in,
he’s
quick
off
the
mark,
despite
his
corpulence.
He’s
CEO
of
Daewoo
Pondange’s
lead
bank.
The
day
after
the
fire,
he
agreed
to
defer
all
the
firm’s
payment
dates.
On
condition
that
Quignard
was
put
in
sole
charge.
On
condition
that
you
return
the
favour
sometime,
dear
friend.
The two men exchange smiles.

At hide number ten, his son-in-law watches him arrive
accompanied
by Tomaso.
First
time
this
fellow’s
invited
to
the
Grande
Commune
hunt.
I
don’t
know
how
wise
that
is.
He
sticks
out
like
a 
sore
thumb
with
his
past,
his
nightclub,
the
Oiseau
Bleu,
his
loud
mistress
and
all
the
rumours
about
him
in
town. I’ll have to have a word with my
father-in-law
about
it.
Quignard stops and taps his son-in-law on the shoulder.

‘Bravo the lawyer. I don’t know how you wangled it with Karim Bouziane, and I don’t want to know. His testimony was decisive. The superintendent is delighted, and I owe you a big thank you.’

‘You’re most welcome. My pleasure.’

Quignard has maintained the habit of rising at dawn from his years of working in a factory. Breakfast is served on the ground floor, in the vast dining room which opens on to a terrace with a view over the entire valley. The Quignard residence is a small château, the former mansion of the owner of the ironworks, in the days when there were ironworks. He lives there alone with his wife since their only daughter got married and went to live in Nancy with her husband. He and his wife now live separate lives. She’s asleep somewhere upstairs while he eats breakfast alone in the monumental room, and that suits him fine. Less time wasted.

A chauffeur-driven black Mercedes waits at the foot of the white stone steps. Car and driver come courtesy of 3
G
. Tomaso is not unappreciative. Impeccable, as always. On the fawn leather back seat, Quignard finds the national dailies, which the driver brings him from Nancy. He flicks through them.
Libération’s
financial section is entirely taken up by a big article entitled: ‘Thomson Multimedia turns down Korean marriage offer.’ With a subheading: ‘The Daewoo affair: emotions run high.’ The
opening
lines read: ‘The unions are fighting to stop their factory and its technology from being sold to the Korean group.’ Half-smile. As long as there’s nothing more serious … He turns the page and moves on to the sports section.

Montoya reaches Pondange via the plateau road, around
mid-morning
. He stops before heading down into the valley and gazes at the town spread out in front of him. Thirty-five years since he left.
Thirty-five
years
,
a
lifetime
,
my
whole
life
,
hold
your
breath
,
vertigo.
On the edge of the plateau, high up, the old town with its ramparts and ancient houses, nothing’s changed. All around, descending down the valley, the workers’ houses and housing estates. A little further away, high up on the flanks of the valley and surrounded by greenery are the residences of the ironworks owners, and on the plateau, outside the town, two social
housing
estates. It’s all still there, but the street of factories along the river with its blast furnaces, the continuous fires hammering and
puffing, the smoke and the smells, the men’s activity, their all-consuming passions, the powerful, violent town, its heart beating day and night, has all been swallowed up, wiped out. He knew it, but to see it … He didn’t want to come here.
Liar
.
You
had
to
come
back
sooner
or
later
.
Valentin
simply
gave
you
an
excuse
.
Now
look
what’s
become
of
Pondange,
that
monster
you
were
so
afraid
of‚
amputated
of
its
factory
satellites,
a
little
provincial
town
that
’
s
had
a
facelift
,
repainted,
neat
and
tidy
,
dozing
deep
in
its
green
valley
.

Unhesitatingly, he finds his way to the police station: it sits behind the local school where his father had been head teacher. He parks his car. A quick glance at the playground. To the left, the head teacher’s house, his own bedroom window. A flood of painful memories. A motherless childhood. He’d never known whether she’d died or simply run off and abandoned him. A strict, tyrannical father who showed no affection, whose image superimposed itself, in his memory, on that of the blast furnaces gobbling up men. He’d run away from Pondange at the age of fourteen and his father had never tried to find him, accepting his disappearance as he had his mother’s. They had never seen each other again.
What
must
he
look
like
now
,
my
father
,
since
appar
ently
he
’
s
still
alive?
A
broken
old
man
of
tidy
appearance?
Is
it
his
shadow
that
I
’
ve
come
to
track
down
here,
in
this
sleepy
town?
He falters for a moment in the muffled mid-morning silence, his equilibrium perturbed, then walks into the police station.

‘The superintendent’s expecting you. First floor on the right.’

In the vast office, the superintendent rises to greet him.
Good-looking
, athletic, very elegant, he invites Montoya to take a seat in an armchair and sits down facing him.

‘Let me introduce myself. Charles Montoya. I work for the Thomson group’s security department …’

‘I know. I got your entire pedigree from Sébastiani, the Nancy police chief, who obtained it from a deputy director of the
judicial
police, no less.’ Smile. ‘That is sufficient for me to consider you as a man who can be trusted.’

Efficient, Valentin’s network. Rayssac, superintendent at Pondange. What can he hope for in this dump? Promotion to the rank of chief at Nancy. Who can help him to achieve that? Sébastiani in Nancy and Renaud at the judicial police
department
. All Valentin had to do was pick up the phone. Montoya is
conscious of the gulf between a former top security services cop, and a poor bastard from the drug squad who left under a cloud.
My
pedigree.
If
only
you
knew
… He too smiles.

‘I’ll put my cards on the table. I’m here to investigate Daewoo, on behalf of my employers. I glean what I can here and there, to help Thomson in the negotiations that are about to begin with the group’s future buyer. Of course, I’m also seeking further information on last week’s fire. My employer is a real stickler for security.’

‘I’ll do everything I can to assist you, especially as the
investigation
is now closed. We’ve just experienced a very unfortunate series of events, the questionable sacking of a woman worker, then one thing led to another and it all got out of hand,
culminating
in the fire. Fortunately we did a good job fast and
effectively
. A textbook investigation.’ He enunciates every syllable. ‘Textbook …’

Textbook, that brought back memories. Made-to-measure witnesses, hand-sewn, prefabricated evidence that comes in a kit. Textbook. A frightening word.

‘… I’ve had a press file compiled for you on Daewoo and on our town, which you’ll find in room 23, on the third floor. You can use the office for two hours, no one will disturb you. No point looking for a photocopier, there isn’t one in the office or upstairs. Another thing, I request that you do not contact Karim Bouziane, the key prosecution witness, and that you inform me of anything you find out that may be useful to the investigation.’

‘Naturally, and I’m grateful for your help. You will understand that I have to be very discreet. It is not desirable for Daewoo to know the precise nature of my visit. I plan to introduce myself as an Agence France Press journalist and if possible, without taking advantage of your kindness, I’d like to have a look around the factory, just to get an idea of what we’re talking about.’

‘I’ll arrange that for you straight away.’

Room 23. As he expected, Montoya finds the ‘forgotten’ case file on the table, next to the press cuttings file. First of all he flicks
rapidly
through the newspaper cuttings, to get himself in the mood. In the local papers, there are pages on the fire, and the headlines are filled with praise for Quignard, the man who takes the
company
’s future in hand after the disaster. A local man, formerly in
the iron and steel industry where he’d started out as a technician and ended up as a factory manager. On the demise of the
industry
, he successfully retrained and became boss of a design office specialising in industrial reconversions, president of the
commercial
court, advisor on the European Development Plan, and in that capacity, the munificent dispenser of EU subsidy manna to the entire valley. Apparently, he’s cherished Daewoo since it was set up, two years ago, and now he’s taking over the helm, in the midst of the crisis (who crowned him king?), whereas all the Korean managers have gone back to Seoul. (Why? Not a word, the question isn’t even asked.) Something widely regarded as evidence of a tremendous sense of responsibility and an
admirable
spirit of sacrifice. The regional press is proud of their local boy. Why does this exemplary track record immediately arouse Montoya’s suspicions?

He comes across a neatly cut out little article from a local paper on the arrest of the Hakim brothers, known drug
traffickers
. Hakim … and now the Tangier case resurfaces in his
memory
, twice in such a short time. Coincidence? With men like the Hakims, always hanging out with the cops, and a man like Valentin, anything can happen. Or, quite simply, the Pondange superintendent had a hand in their arrest and wants to blow his own trumpet to someone with my connections. He reads
carefully
. Customs officers, routine check, looks familiar. Apparently the Hakim brothers are still involved in the drugs racket and are now based in Antwerp. It would be funny for them to have fallen victim to a war between Belgian and French customs officers.
But
what
part
did
the
Pondange
cops
play
?
No
mention
in
the
article.
The
Hakim
brothers:
make
a
mental
note.
I
’
ll
put
it
to
one
side
until
I
find
out
more
‚
but
the
two
men
and
their
dealings
remain
in
the
frame.

Now he skims through the file on the investigation, which seems to get off to a good start. List of those present during the strike, timetable of their movements, cross-checking of
statements
. The job is unfinished, and the names mean nothing to Montoya who moves on to the witness statements. He quickly draws the obvious conclusion: a trumped-up investigation. First of all a minor delinquent is targeted and then he becomes the prosecution witness. Classic. Once in the cops’ hands he does his job rather cleverly. The factory security guards: clearly
following orders. The first version is to incriminate the future witness, the second to discredit the suspect, they’re ‘yes’ men. Which immediately raises a question about the exact nature of the company that employs them, 3
G
, in Nancy. Note that the minor delinquent, probably a grass, is a dope dealer. In Tangier, the Hakims also trafficked dope, as well as coke. Coincidence? Then there are the two proles. Amrouche, who makes vehement accusations. A management mole? But his hatred sounds
genuine
, which proves nothing, of course. And Rolande Lepetit, who offers only a limp defence. Is it limp or honest? She’s the one who was ‘unfairly’ sacked, as the superintendent said. Her
sacking
sparked off the strike, so she was well liked. Amrouche also liked her, and Quignard’s reinstated her. In exchange for what? I’ll bet Quignard isn’t the sort to give something for nothing. An exemplary worker? For a moment Montoya’s mind
wanders
. He recalls the milieus he frequented as a youth. They all sought to emulate Stakhanov, the model worker of the Soviet Union’s heyday. Was there still such a thing as a model worker? Rolande Lepetit Stakhanova. He pictured a tall, sturdy,
fair-haired
woman with clear blue eyes, a straight, rather thick waist, slightly stiff. Whoever this woman is, History has spoken: beware of Stakhanova. A final glance through the preliminary part of the investigation to check the movements of key witnesses: the
security
guards, Amrouche, Rolande Lepetit, Karim Bouziane. He’s through in less than two hours.

In the early afternoon, Montoya parks his car in front of the remains of the Daewoo factory. The situation is simple: the hangar that housed the stocks is completely gutted, the
production
plant is intact, and all the machines are there. The offices too are intact and have been thoroughly cleared out. Not a
single
piece of paper, not a single computer. There are no police on the premises any more and the security guards are carrying out their routine duties. In fact it was the security firm itself that
handled
the clearing out of the offices the day after the fire, without it occurring to the police for a moment to stop them.

Seated at the wheel of his car, he telephones Valentin using the secure mobile connected directly to Valentin’s private number. He keys in his personal code.

‘The investigation’s a sham, there’s absolutely no doubt about it. My hunch is that the cops aren’t aware of it, otherwise
the superintendent wouldn’t have been so willing to let me go through his files, even though he’s desperate to make a good impression on yours truly. So he’s either being leaned on or used. Not very illuminating.’

Valentin merely groans.

‘For the time being, that’s all I’ve got. But I have a request: Can you find out about the security firm 3
G
in Nancy?’

‘Say that again.’